


No one would riot for less

by QueenAsha



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 15:45:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenAsha/pseuds/QueenAsha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only a few days before King Robert reaches Winterfell, Balon Greyjoy declares himself King of the Iron Islands. Theon can do nothing but await his own execution, while Robb grows desperate for a way to save him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No one would riot for less

The raven comes in the early hours of the morning. Theon doesn't even have time to take his his seat next to Robb at the table when he is pulled aside by Lord Eddard Stark. Lord Stark has never been particularly warm to Theon, but today he won't even look him in the eye. Confused, Theon glances back at Robb, who shrugs. Theon hesitates, but in the end he has no choice but to follow.

He is led to his own chambers, joined by two guards. Lord Stark tells him to take a seat, so he obeys. Theon feels uneasy. “Lord Stark,” he says. “If I have done something to cause offence, then I–”

Lord Stark looks up then, and Theon's voice catches in his throat. Lord Stark looks pale. “There came a raven from King's Landing.”

Theon's mouth goes dry. “Oh?”

“The Iron Islands have declared Balon Greyjoy King. The ironborn are raiding the coasts as we speak,” he says. “I'm sorry.” 

Theon feels strangely calm. He nods; he understands the implication clearly enough. “How long do I have?”

“The King and Queen are riding for Winterfell as we speak. They should be here within four moons. Five at the most. It had best be done before then, unless you want an audience.”

He feels his calm slip. Theon can feel his breaths coming out shorter, and the room suddenly feels too small. He tries to force a smile, but Lord Stark flinches. “I would like to be alone, if it please you, my lord.”

Lord Stark looks hesitant, but he nods. “I'm sorry,” he says. “If there is anything you want, I will see that the guards have it brought.”

_Guards,_ Theon thinks wearily. _I'm a prisoner._

When the doors slam shut, Theon breaks. It's as if there is a hand clenching around his throat, and he can't seem to get enough air into his lungs. He claws uselessly at his throat; at the invisible noose. _No, I won't be hanged. Lord Stark will see me executed, but at his own hand. Ice, he'll use._ Theon wonders if it'll be a clean stroke, or if Lord Stark will have to hack at his neck multiple times to sever his head from the rest of his body. He feels sick, and he grabs for chamber pot and he begins to retch.

. . . 

Theon isn't sure how much time has passed when the door opens again. Theon looks up from his place in bed, and sees Robb enter. Robb looks pale, his lips cracked and his eyes are red and puffy.

Theon forces a smile. “You look a mess.”

“Don't,” Robb croaks.

For once, Theon holds his tongue. He isn't sure what to say. Robb comes to sit next to him on his bed, and glances at the room. Theon follows his gaze, and instantly feels a flush of embarrassment. After throwing up, he'd been overtaken by such rage that he had all but destroyed the content of his chambers. At least one of the guards had sent for a new chamber pot.

Robb doesn't say anything. Without warning, he clutches Theon and begins to weep. Despite being the smaller of the two, Theon ends up being the one having to support Robb's weight. Robb is shaking, and Theon can feel his collarbone grow damp from Robb's tears.

Eventually, Theon can't take it. Gently, he pushes Robb away. “Stop that,” he says. “No need to make a fuss.”

Robb is shaking his head. “I begged him,” he says. “My father, I begged him not to go through with it.”

“Cheer up, Stark. It's not the end of the world.” He smiles, a mockery of his usual grin.

“How can you jape about something like this?”

Theon can't help it; he starts to laugh. It tears from his throat suddenly, in a screech. It frightens Robb, he can tell, but he can't hold it in. The laugh grows louder, and he has to clutch his stomach as it starts to cramp. As his cheeks grow damp, Robb pulls him in to another hug. As he clings to Robb like a lifeline, Theon realises that the sound he is making doesn't sound like laughing. _I sound like a pig,_ he realises. _I sound just like the pigs of Winterfell do when they are being led to slaughter._

. . .

It is Jon Snow who comes to say goodbye to him first.

“Snow,” he greats. He holds his head high, and smirks.

“Greyjoy,” he replies. He looks even more miserable than usual.

“Come to see me off?”

Jon closes his eyes, and Theon isn't sure if he is going to slap him or burst into tears. In the end, he does neither. Instead, he looks him in the eye, and grabs him by the shoulder. “I'm sorry.” he says. “I know we never really got on, but I never wanted wanted this.”

Theon shrugs, subtly ridding himself of the bastards hand. “Seems you won, in the end. Just...” he trails off, licking his lips. “Look after Robb,” he settles on finally. “Keep an eye on him.”

Jon shakes his head. “I can't.”

“You'd deny a dying man his final wish?” he snaps, annoyed.

“It's not that,” says Jon. “I'm riding north. To the Night's Watch.”

“Your taking the black?” Jon nods. Theon lets out a low whistle. “Huh. Well, black always was your colour.” Theon wonders if it is his upcoming execution which has prompted this sudden decision. “Just don't get yourself killed up there. I hear that freezing to death is pretty unpleasant.”

Jon looks like he wants to say something else, but he never does. He reaches out, touches Theon's shoulder. “Take care.”

“You too.”

…

On the day before his execution, Bran, Arya and Sansa all come in to his chamber. He hasn't bothered to dress or shave, and he doesn't really want to see them. He says as much. “Piss off.” He feels a pang of satisfaction at Sansa's minute flinch. He then realises that Bran is holding something small and fluffy. “What's that you've got?”

“A direwolf,” Arya answers for him. “Bran found them yesterday, when mother sent him to watch the execution of a deserter of the Night's Watch–” Arya is silenced by an elbow in the belly from her sister.

“They were near a river. Their mother had died, and we found six of them near the mother. There was another in the river, a little black one with yellow eyes, but father said it strayed too far from its family and drowned,” Bran says. “We all got one each though, even Rickon. This is Summer.”

Theon scoffs. “You should have skinned them, you'd have done better with a nice pair of gloves.”

Bran looks sad. “We didn't come here to upset you.”

“No, you came to watch me squirm before I die.” He laces the words with as much cruelty as he can muster. He had never cared much for the Stark children. They were too young for him connect with, and if truth be told, he didn't want to get too attached.

Sansa looks about ready to cry. “We wanted to show that we care,” she says. Her pretty lips quiver, and Theon is suddenly acutely aware of her close resemblance to Robb.

He makes his decision. _I'm only being cruel to be kind,_ he tells himself. Then he smirks. “Well, you've done that. Now be gone. I'll be dead on the morrow, let me enjoy my final moments in peace.”

He hears Sansa inhale sharply. She doesn't say anything though, she just turns around and leaves. Bran is quick to follow. Arya is on her way out, when Theon calls out. “Wait!” he says. “If you see Robb, can you tell him to come by?”

Arya scoffs. “As if he wouldn't come and visit you again. Stupid.” She closes the door.

Theon's smile dies on his lips, and he thinks of the drowned direwolf pup. _That one must have been mine. Maybe I’ll even get to see it soon._

. . .

Robb comes in soon after. He is carrying a tray containing a flagon of wine, and something which looks like Lemon cake. “I brought food,” he says. “Sansa made it.”

“I'm not hungry,” he says, but moves out of the way for Robb to set it down on the bed.

“You need to eat.”

“What's the point?”

Robb looks at him, begs him to just have a slice. Theon decides to grant his friend a final moment of normality.

They eat a little, and Theon drinks heavily. He asks Robb why he isn't joining in, and Robb tells him he wants to be able to remember every moment of this later, without alcohol making his memory foggy. That sentence alone is enough for Theon to have another cup of wine. 

He hasn't eaten well in days, so the wine gets to him quickly. It is sweet, probably one of Lord Stark's finer imports. _Maybe he's trying to lessen his guilt a little._ Within the hour, his lips start to feel numb and his body warm. He craves contact, and draws close to Robb, so that they are laying face to face on the bed. He looks at Robb. “I don't want to die,” he confesses.

Robb reaches across, his hand stroking along the thin wool of Theon's tunic. “Tell me what to do.”

_Give me some poison. Get me out. Slit my throat. Give me a sword._ “Hold me. Stay the night. I don't want to sleep alone.”

Robb’s face crumples, and he starts to cry again. They've been taking turns, on and off ever since Robb got there. This time though, the wine has made him less cautious. Rather than wipe away his tears, Theon shuffles closer to Robb so that their faces are almost touching. “Don't deny me now, Stark,” he mutters, and kisses Robb softly. He tastes of salt and sadness, and he is quick to pull away.

“You're drunk,” he says.

“I am,” he agrees. He leans in again, kisses him softer this time. He isn't trying to convey any hidden passions, it's more of a manifestation of grief. This time, Robb pulls him closer. He flips them over, so that Robb is on his back and Theon is on top. Theon starts to sob. He claws, at Robb's hair and his clothes and the sheets. When he starts clawing at his own throat instead, Robb stops kissing him. Theon feels Robbs hands ease at his own, and leads them down to rest at his side.

Theon is feeling light-headed, and his eyes heavy. “I don't want to fall asleep,” he says. _I want to spend as many waking moments with you as I can._

“Then don't.”

“I don't think I can stay awake either. But I don't want to fall asleep in silence. Tell me a story.” _Let me fall asleep to the sound of your voice._ And Robb, who looks ready to fall apart, obliges.

“In the Godswood, there lived two wolves...”

…

The wind feels chilly against his skin. He would have liked to don a fur, but he didn't want anything getting in the way of a clean stroke, so he decides to forego a shirt entirely. He turns to the side, and suddenly Lord Stark is right next to him. In his hand, Theon spies Ice, though usually he is the one who carries it for him. “Any last words?”

He ponders this for a moment. “What is dead may never die.” He kneels before Lord Stark can tell him to, and stretches his neck, right out. He hears the sword sing as it cuts through the air...

The cut is not clean. It takes three, four, five strokes, and his head is still attached to his body. Theon trashes and howls and scratches, tries to grab at his throat...

_“Theon!”_

He wakes with a violent start. His hands are being held down by Robb, and there is a sharp pain along his throat and chest. Judging by the stickiness of his hands, he's been tearing at his own skin. “I'm sorry,” Theon says. “I didn't mean to wake you.”

Robb puts a finger to his lips. “Shhh, keep it down. You didn't wake me. I have a plan.”

Theon squints at him. Despite his head throbbing from the wine, he notes that Robb has changed clothes. He wonders if this is another dream. “What?”

“I have a plan. I've packed a bag for you already, it's under your bed.”

Theon looks, and sure enough, there is a medium-sized cloth bag. “Great,” he says. “Fantastic. Now I have some clothes to bring to the afterlife.”

“You aren't going to die,” Robb tells him. “I'm not letting them take you. I'm getting you out of here.”

That wakes him up for real. “What are you saying.”

“We're leaving.”

“We?”

“Yes, us. I was thinking south, maybe to Dorne. Or even across the narrow sea. Far enough that no one will find us.”

Theon feels his eyes fill, and damn if he hasn't cried enough already, but he can't help it. 

“Don't thank me yet,” Robb warns. “We still have to get out. Arya already spiked the guards drink with milk of the poppy. Jon is saddling the horses.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Robb silences him. They wait, and Theon can't tell how much time is passing. The room is silent, save the sound of his own beating heart, so he jumps when hears the a high-pitched howl. _Probably one of the wolf pups._

Robb smiles. “That's our signal. Lets go.”

The coast is clear. They sneak out the castle and down to the stable, where Jon is waiting. He is holding two geldings, a large bay for Robb and a slightly smaller dapple grey for Theon. “Ride swiftly, but with care. The road is clear, but you don't want your horses to stumble in the dark.”

Robb nods. “Thank you,” he says. “Good luck. Check in every now and then, make sure Bran grows up to be a proper little lord.”

“That won't be a problem. The king will be here on the morrow, and will be bringing his boy Tommen. I'm sure they'll get on.”

“Farewell, brother,” he says. Jon hands Robb a small bundle of fluff, which Theon can only assume to be his direwolf. _Grey Wind,_ he remembers.

Theon smiles at Jon. “Thank you,” he says. “Don't get killed.”

“Nor you. Keep Robb out of harms way.”

And then they are out of time. They ride as fast as they dare under the cover of night. He has no doubts that Lord Stark will send men after them, maybe even go after them himself, but he hopes that they will have put enough distance between themselves and Winterfell by then.

…

They spend their first day hidden in a cave. It isn't cold, but they sit close anyway, them and the tiny wolf at their feet. Robb is confident that they have retreated far enough from the road to remain safe, but Theon still needs re-assurance to quell the waves of anxiety, so he talks to him as he cares for the wounds on his neck. Robb is no Maester Luwin, but the scratches aren't too deep.

“Why didn't you tell me your plan before allowing me to claw myself apart?” he mutters as Robb dabs at his neck.

“I didn't plan it,” he says. “Not really. After you fell asleep, I went to visit my mother. I was upset, and she helped calm me down. And she suggested I try and get you out.”

It takes Theon several moments to digest this. “Lady Catelyn? She told you to run away with me?”

“No. We spoke, and she told me that there comes a time in every persons life when they have to decide what they value the most. For my father, it is honour. For my mother though, it has always been family. Do you know the Tully words?" Robb pauses, smiling. "Family, duty, honour. She said that I must be able to live with the decision I make.”

“And?”

“And I chose family. You are my family.”

Theon can't think of a response. They'll certainly make an odd family. _A Stark, A Greyjoy and a wolf. We'll need new identities. We'll need to be well away when the wolf grows large enough to draw attention._ “Maybe we should go north,” Theon muses. “Join the Night's Watch with Snow. No one will get us there.”

Robb scoffs. “As if you could handle the cold. No, I say we head south. Winter is coming, and you never did handle the cold well. Lets travel so far away that the winter can't reach. Maybe Pentos.”

“Pentos, huh.” Theon smiles, and finally lets the relief flood his body. It feels good. “Sounds like a plan.”


End file.
